But thou, O dust profane, and of each air
The plaything doom'd, with what face wilt thou bear
The Judgment-throne? how huge a stormy cloud
Will lower upon thee! how wilt thou be bow'd
With iron nod, the prey of frowning Face,
By thunder to be driven far off, apace,
From light of sacred Countenance! afar
From golden regions, where the righteous are,
Sooth'd in pure Peace's lap eterne, whose wing
Towers high above them, overshadowing;
While happy showers of nectar sweet imbue
Their lips, as with an everlasting dew.
The wicked so His watchful ire will learn,
And cower 'neath God's avenging countenance stern;
The righteous so His love divine will feel
With gentle lapse into their bosom steal. R. WI.